


The Stillness in Steeping Tea

by springbok7



Series: An Assortment of Teas and Biscuits [6]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: #MinervaSafe, 007 Fest, 007 Fest Fancreations, 007 games, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Contemplation on tea, Fluff, Multi, Team M-branch, established poly relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-18 21:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14860244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7
Summary: Q ruminates on tea and the pair of Double Os that keep him in it.





	The Stillness in Steeping Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/gifts), [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts), [Dassandre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/gifts).



> This drabble was written 27 January 2018, and is dedicated to found family. You know why.
> 
> Beta-ed by the fantastic [Dassandre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre), who sends me all sorts of tea recommendations I have NO ROOM FOR! She's evil. Go read her stuff!
> 
> All remaining errors and typos are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you spot any and/or feel there should be additional tags. I welcome constructive criticism, but neither support or feed trolls.
> 
>  
> 
> _Horrifying as the idea is, I do not own these characters. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from this piece of fan-fiction._

Q laughs.

Next to the kettle is sat a new tin of tea left by one of the two Double Os he shacks up with.

‘Gunpowder’ reads the label, scrawled elegantly in some neo-Chinese font.

Q looks around, but the flat is still.  

Not that this means he’s alone.  

He might be.  

Or he might not.

He honestly can’t tell: he doesn’t have his glasses on, and nothing is moving.

So.

He prises the lid off the tin and inhales deeply, letting the rich and complex aroma of the twisted leaves wash over him.

He can smell it, taste it, drown in it.

A bitter tinge like fog twisting in the twilight between the trunks of a pine-filled hinterland.

A sweet whisper of honeysuckle and apple blossoms touched by the first fingers of sunlight.

A fragile note of fire and soot and charcoal as the sun fades in the west.

A touch of smoke in the pale noon of a dreich and dreary day.

James makes the perfect cup…

But Alec...

Alec knows the notes and the subtleties, the nuances and the layers of flavour Q will love most.

He brings them home.

Sri Lanka.

Zhejiang.

Burma.

Fujian.

Nantou.

Wherever he winds up, he snags a packet, a bundle, a sample or a sack, and brings it home to Q.

Sometimes rather the worse for wear, but always, he brings something home.

To Q.

Q smiles, the faintest quirk of his lips betraying his amusement.

Neither man can say the words.

Three tiny, miniscule, inconsequential words, spoken by millions… billions…. every single day.

But.

Not by Alec.

Not by James.

Nor by Q either, for that matter.

Their lips sculpt the words from fierce kisses and wet mouthings pressed to the skin over cranium and trachea, sacrum and kidney.

Too many fists taken to those lips for them to be anything but raw.

Their teeth mould the words into sharp nips and livid bruises sucked from the flesh over tibia and gracilis, metacarpals and brachioradialis.

Too many betrayals and missed opportunities to chew on, grind up and stew upon.

Their tongues shape the words into slow licks and swirling paths traced against the flesh over clavicle and trapezius, scapula and heart.

Too many times spoken as lies to use those words for truth.

Their hands breathe the words as they map the inches of skin, bloodied and torn, scarred and burnt.

Too many soldering irons knocked over to count.

Bombs exploding too soon, crashes involving helicopters, aeroplanes, cars, motorbikes, petrol depots, even the occasional tank or ship.

But no one bothers to keep score.

What’s the point?

There’ll always be one more.

Tomorrow.

Next week.

But now?

Now there is only tea, and stillness, and quiet. 

And the click of the kettle switching off.

This tea will be steeped, and savoured, and enjoyed, whilst the tin goes into the cupboard to join the ranks of its comrades.

And his Double Os?

They will likewise be kept, and savoured and enjoyed, and guided and protected, and brought home in as few pieces as possible.

Q serves Queen and country.

And they serve Q.

**Author's Note:**

> Feed your writer! Click a kudos or drop a comment in the box. You'll make her a happy camper! <3


End file.
